


A Fresh Start

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, canonverse, post 4x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9906197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Bellamy still has hope.





	

He feels a hand slide onto his shoulder and he knows it’s Clarke’s.

Not leaning into her touch is a physical battle. He’s been holding every last one of his muscles tense since Azgeda took him captive, and hasn’t let up even in the brief moments of sleep he’s stolen over the past– however many hours.

He’s lost track.

It seems like ages ago he was at ease and exhausted enough to steal a full nap on that couch. Ages ago that it was his hand on her shoulder, his touch offering comfort. In reality, it’s been only days.

Quite possibly the worst of his life. If his life didn’t start until the day his sister was born, it surely felt like it ended the minute they told him she was dead. There were plenty of times he’d wished it had.

Even after Niylah had sent word that she had O– his baby sister, his responsibility– he hadn’t dared to believe she might still, somehow, miraculously, be alive until he saw it for himself.

He hasn’t left her bedside since.

Of course, half of that is because in the moments when she’s lucid, she refuses to stay down. He and Niylah and Clarke have had to physically restrain her more than once, which would be harder if she weren’t still weak from blood loss.

She’s been a fighter since day one. He’s more relieved than he could ever comprehend that she hasn’t stopped fighting now.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says quietly, imploringly, when he doesn’t turn under her touch.

“I don’t want to leave her.”

It comes out raspy and uneven, which he knows will only make Clarke all the more determined.

“I know,” she says, her hand flexing on his shoulder. “Just five minutes. Please.”

He looks up at her finally, her eyes as blue and vast as the sky. He always feels like he can breathe better when she looks at him that way.

She purses her lips when he doesn’t change his answer and walks away. Whatever she understood in that searching look, it must have struck something deep because Clarke Griffin never relents any ground she doesn’t need to.

He turns back to watch the reassuring rise and fall of his sister’s breathing, losing track of Clarke until she slides back into his view.

She kneels before him, one of her hands coming up to grasp his chin firmly, holding it in place as her eyes sweep over him in a practiced, clinical assessment. And then she’s raising her other hand to his face, gently dabbing with a damp cloth at old cuts and bruises– more recent than they feel, given the lifetime’s worth of pain and exuberance he’s been through in the past few days.

The cloth is cool against his skin, her hands gentle and firm all at once as she works slowly around tender spots. As she wipes the crusted blood and grime from his face, he feels as raw on the outside as he does emotionally.

But it’s the kind of rawness that Clarke has always managed to draw out of him– the kind that comes from a clean slate. The kind that comes with hope.

Her fingers prod tender spots on his cheek, his jaw, his temple. The hand holding his chin in place moves to push his hair back from his forehead, reminding him of the way his mother used to comb it with her fingers when he was young. Reminding him of the way Gina had played with his curls. Reminding him of the way Octavia ruffled his hair whenever she managed to trap him in a headlock (though he maintains to this day that he let her win).

Thinking of his sister jolts him back to the reality of the moment they’re in. He’d almost forgotten, Clarke’s soothing, rhythmic motions lulling him into a semi-hypnotic state.

But for the first time in hours, he’s content to let his gaze linger elsewhere. While his heart beats in time with Octavia’s deep-slumber breathing, he lets his eyes stay soft on Clarke, on the furrow of her brow and the firm, focused set of her mouth.

She works methodically across his face and down his neck until she hits the collar of his shirt and can go no further. Her free hand now rests on his knee, steadying herself, and he moves his to cover it.

“Thanks,” he whispers hoarsely.

She nods, understanding more than his words say, as always.

“Fresh start,” she says, squeezing his knee once before standing and walking away.

When his eyes settle on his sister’s form, he’s surprised to see her looking back at him, eyes droopy.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He smiles, scooting closer and taking her hand with the same that was just holding onto Clarke. She grips his hand hard, so much like the first time he ever got her fist to clench around his finger, and his heart twinges. “How do you feel?”

“Floaty,” she murmurs, clearly still out of it. “Woozy.”

“You can thank Niylah for that,” he laughs.

“Thanks,” she says softly, her eyelids fluttering shut and her breath starting to slow again.

“For what?” He whispers, stroking a hand over her hair like he used to when she got sick growing up. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re here,” she says.

His breath catches in his throats and suddenly it’s hard to swallow.

“I’ll always be here,” he says, even though he thinks she knows.

She squeezes his hand again, drifting back to what’s hopefully a healing sleep.

They’ve still got a hard road ahead of them. Bellamy knows it won’t be easy. But Octavia is still here, Clarke’s determination knows no bounds, and he feels, inexplicably, like they might still have a fighting chance.

Luckily, they’re fighters.

And they’re still breathing.

And so he still has hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Kacka does a thing is STILL A THING promise. This is mostly an overflow of emotion about 4x04 and the blake siblings.


End file.
